


Bansi

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: Jodhaa Akbar canon fics [9]
Category: Jodhaa-Akbar (2008)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Oneshot, PWP, Post-Movie, Smut, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 05:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14395626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: Jalal challenges Jodhaa to a rematch. Oneshot. Post-movie.Or, what we all wanted to see happen when Jalal had Jodhaa backed up against that pillar.





	Bansi

**Author's Note:**

> Title means “flute” in Hindi. This takes place after the movie. There is (my very first attempt at) smut. You have been warned.

It takes a while, for both of them, for the ghosts of the past to not echo in the clangs of swords. For him, it’s memories of the desert, blindingly white in every direction, and sand stinging his eyes. For her, the memories of the courtyards of Amer, and her brother’s taunts and guidance. But the call of the blade is too strong for both of them to linger in the past forever, and come one fine spring afternoon, he challenges her to a rematch.

She accepts, and orders that the woman’s palace be cleared, with explicit instructions that unless the Mughal Empire is on the verge of being invaded, no one is to disturb the Emperor or Empress. That last bit is delivered with the threat that anyone who disobeys shall find themselves under the command of Ni’Mat for a whole week.

“A more effective punishment than the elephant’s foot or having both hands chopped off,” her husband remarks as Jodhaa slashes her sword through the air, warming up. The swords of the Red Fort sit differently in her hand than the ones she grew up wielding, and she needs the time to grow used to the weight.

“Perhaps you ought to promote her from Head Eunuch to one of your ministers of justice. As much as we here in the harem would miss her fine wit, her presence alone would halve the iniquity in your court.” A few more swings, and she should have the hang of it.

“Perhaps,” he says, noncommittally. “Now if only you would cease stalling and allow our--”

_SWISH!_

_CLANG!_

She lunges unannounced, he parries it swiftly -- not that she expected him to be caught unawares. It signals the beginning of their duel, and away they go, slashing, swinging, ducking and jumping, blocking and weaving in and out through the pillars and courtyards. It is a reprise of the dance they began in Amer, though this time there is no angry desperation steering Jodhaa’s moves. Her husband, meanwhile, is still as insufferably smug as before. Jodhaa thinks wiping that conceited smirk off his face will be as satisfying as beating him, even as she cherishes his embarrassingly romantic compliments.

Now that she is no longer fuming, she is better able to appreciate his skill, the grace with which he strikes at her and counters her blows, his stamina (and his muscles, she readily admits). The day is warm and their sparring is fierce, but surely that cannot account for how hot she feels herself growing, the flush spreading across her body. Whatever the cause, her half-hearted quest for revenge in victory soon fades, and her world reduces to the glint of the sunlight off of their flying blades, the clacks and clangs, her breath heaving in and out, their bodies thrumming with energy.

Their duel takes them across the courtyard and under the eaves. He is gaining the upper hand, of course; she is skilled, but any instruction she received was recreational at most, while he has been trained rigorously in swordfighting his whole life. He spies a weakness in her stance, and moves in. He grabs her wrist so that their swords are locked, turning her with him until he has her backed up against a pillar.

 _Fool!_ As if he hadn’t pulled the exact same trick last time. Yet her mild irritation fades away when their gazes meet. Her muscles, tensed for her next jab, relax, and she senses he is doing the same. Their swords are still locked in a standstill, their eyes still searching each others’ faces, but not for weaknesses.

She has been in this position before countless times -- their faces inches away, both of them breathless. Too many times for it to be a novelty, yet there is something about this occasion that makes her feel innocent and untouched all over again. Perhaps it is the sunlight, perhaps it is the musk of sweat hanging off of them, perhaps it is the presence of swords in both their hands.

A sword clangs to the floor, followed by another -- the precise order in which they drop is never discovered -- and then they are both kissing. Her fingers tighten in his curls, his arms snake around her back and draw her in so that she is flush with him. They are knitted together as tightly as can be, yet it is still not enough. Her hands drop down, to the small of his back (one of his weak spots), and he groans, a low guttural sound.

It ignites something in her, in both of them, a kind of delirium. When they have recovered, she finds that he has her pinned against the wall, her legs wrapped around him, both of their tunics crumpled wrecks above their waists.

She is suddenly _very_ aware that they are in public, even if the women’s palace has been cleared for the day, and that they are on the verge of shaming the Mughal Empire.

She is also very aware that she does not want to stop.

She moves to resume their ferocious kiss, but her husband chooses now to be a pinnacle of sense, and draws away. He begins trying to untangle himself from her; in response, she wraps her arms more firmly around him and arches her hips against his. Jodhaa bites back a smile; she has learned this much, at least, in the last few months about her husband. He groans again and hikes up her knees, which makes _her_ groan in turn. O Lord, she loves this man, and she will have him right here, propriety and decorum notwithstanding…

Until he dislodges himself from their embrace with strenuous effort, and grips Jodhaa’s shoulders firmly enough to keep a healthy distance between them. She struggles before conceding defeat, and slumps against the wall, the frenzy in her mind simmering down to a murmur.

Her husband is engaged in a similar descent, breathing heavily as he does, pressing his forehead against hers. She allows them thirty seconds’ recovery before she winds her fingers through his and gives a gentle tug in the direction of her bedchamber.

He needs no further prompting.

* * *

Once they are safely ensconced behind the curtains, the dance resumes. Jodhaa has grown bolder since they first began laying together, and it is she who divests him of his tunic, she who digs her nails into his back, she who nips at his neck as he all but tears her kameez off. There is none of the slowness, the gentleness of their first time. The tenderness is still there, but accompanied by an insatiable _need_ that has them both on the bed, tangled in each other, within seconds.

He kisses the hollow beneath her neck, then moves lower, to the swell of her breasts. Each kiss elicits a gasp, a moan, a twitch. Each one is as precious as any of the Nine Gems of his court. He presses one last kiss to the gully between her breasts, then lifts his head slightly to watch her reaction.

Though it has been several months since Jodhaa lowered the last of her barriers, and they became husband and wife in truth, he is still awestruck every time he sees her face like this. Eyes half-closed in wonder, cheeks flushed with desire, mouth open in a gasp. To know that she loves him, not only allows him to see her like this but _wants_ him to see her like this, to know that she is his just as he is hers, is a gift beyond words.

He recalls the first time he saw her face, pale white under her red prayer shawl, eyes wide with surprise before an icy formality froze her lovely features, entirely at contrast with the passionate devotional _bhajan_ she had been singing only moments earlier. A devotion he had admired when he first witnessed it, despite his distaste for idolatry, a devotion he had secretly yearned to earn for himself.

He has it now.

That thought emboldens him enough to continue his journey down her body, past the curve of her breasts where he usually stops. He inches down her stomach, kissing every inch of skin he can, biting back a smile as she shakes with laughter. Her laughter fades when she realizes he is continuing to move lower, to the hollow of her hip, where he presses a long, lingering kiss.

A sudden gasp-- he does not look up. He nudges her thighs apart, a gesture she obeys automatically, before realizing just how close his head is to… to….

Her knees snap together, stopped only by his hold on her thighs. She shifts, uncomfortably aware of how exposed she is to his gaze. Gently, gently, he caresses her thighs, inching up from her knee, and slowly, slowly, she relaxes, reclining back onto the bed.

He shifts so that he is kneeling between her parted legs, his gaze level with her. Jalal eases a finger into her, surprised to find how wet she is. Encouraged, he leans in, and allows his tongue to run the length of her folds.

She moans, her body reeling from that little touch. Her fingers wrap into his curls, and her legs clench around his head. He continues to lick her, every little gasp she lets out stoking a fire in him too. Her hips jolt against his face, and in between her groans, he could almost swear he hears her hiss, “ _Faster…”_

He increases his pace, his tongue brushing over the bundle of nerves that has her writhing and moaning out loud. It’s a wonder to him, how her body seems to yearn for every little brush of his lips against her center, how he instinctively knows what to do to heighten her pleasure. _I shall become your flute and belong to your lips alone,_ she had once sung, and lasciviously, he wonders if her Shyam would approve of this.

When she climaxes under his attentions, curling in around him, her face scarlet and a keen escaping her lips, he finds he does not care whether Krishna or Allah would approve.

* * *

He slides into her with a hiss, and Jodhaa wraps her legs around his waist, her heels already digging into his spine. He thrusts into her and she groans, arching her back against him in turn. Slowly they begin to move, finding a rhythm to sink into. She meets him thrust for thrust, her arms wrapping lazily around his neck. She’s close, _so_ close to another…

Until his hips still completely.

She glances up at him, only to see that smirk upon his features. That smirk that warns her he has something devilish up his sleeve, some trap for her that she cannot hope to escape.

She tries to arch against him, but in a twinkling his hands are spanning her waist, halting the needy spasms of her body. “There is a price to be paid, my Empress,” he whispers in her ear.

“Name it,” she groans, the pleasure in her reaching a fever pitch.

“Say my name,” he whispers back, and she groans again, this time in frustration. Trust him to know how to get what he wants!

“That I cannot do, my lord.”

“Why not?” he asks, his fingers grazing her inner thigh tantalizingly.

“It reduces the lifespan!” she snaps back, the passion in her dying down, to be replaced by irritation. She already said it once, why must he drag it out of her once more?

Jodhaa tries, weakly, again to grind herself against him. His grip holds firm.

“Shahenshah,” she tries, and he shakes his head.

“Say my name. Every last syllable, from your lips.”

She bites her lip, desire warring with propriety. Her eyes meet his, and they are no longer taunting, but soft and warm, full of supplication. Something in her softens at that sight, at the knowledge that the simple sound of his name in her voice means so much to him. She does not understand it, curse this man, but Jodhaa finds she cannot deny him this.

“Say it!”

“Jalal.” His eyes light up, and he rubs against her once, briefly, but it is not enough.

“Jalaluddin.” He thrusts against her, and finally allows her to respond with a thrust of her own.

“Jalaluddin Mohammad--” and here she breaks off with a gasp as he enters her again, and she finds she cannot speak for a moment, feeling so full and so complete.

“Jalaluddin… Mohammad… Akbar,” she gets out, and any qualms she had about the gesture dissipate at the gratitude on his face. Whatever damage it might do to his lifespan, there are a thousand lifetimes to be found in that awe painted on his countenance.

They begin moving together again, pants escaping them both, hips falling and rising, faster and faster and faster until they both reach their climax at the same time. They are both shuddering, gasping, writhing, and it is not until they have caught their breaths and he has rolled off her that she remembers that they were supposed to be having a rematch. It is on the tip of her tongue to ask him who won after all, but when he pulls her against him, his chest warm against her back, and she curls into him instinctively, the question fades into irrelevancy. She already knows the answer.

**Author's Note:**

> Possible punishments in the Mughal Empire did include being trampled underneath an elephant’s foot or having one (or both) hands chopped off. And yes, I really did _that_ with that line from “Man Mohana”.


End file.
